the cadence of part time poets

Chapter 63: Memory

Oh no, not me,
I never lost control;
You're face to face,
With the man who sold the world...

- "The Man Who Sold the World" David Bowie, 1971

He probably should've been angrier with Sirius. Much angrier. It should've been easy—Remus was an angry person after all. For the last several years of his life, his anger had left him feeling as though he were on an ever-revolving merry-go-round with no way to get off. Every now and then he would fool himself into thinking that he had escaped it—that the memories had finally stopped chasing and hounding his sleep—but then he'd go home again, or get a letter, or someone would say things like his mother had killed herself, and the entire thing would start up again; round and round.

Out of all of it, the one thing Remus could never allow himself to be, was angry with his friends. It just didn't come naturally. He was annoyed by them often, sometimes livid even, but anger... true anger... now that was something reserved for people far worse than friends.

It was probably the reason why he'd believed Sirius would never not be true to his word. Stupid. Sirius was just as angry as he was, he simply... showed it in different ways. Remus had used to believe that James and Sirius were two different sides of the same coin, but even as close as they were, all it would've taken was the slightest bit of foresight to realise how wrong he'd been. There was no room on a coin like that for someone as good as James.

"Shall we flip a coin, eh Moony?" Sirius had suggested once. "Heads you, tails me."

It was over something stupid, like who got the last fag in the box, but as the ten pence glittered through the air in slow motion, Remus found himself praying that it would turn up heads. He'd still share the fag of course, but it would be his and that would be more than enough reason to gloat.

Heads. Heads. Let it be me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me.

He'd felt the same way as he watched their final prank unfold—after agreeing to play the key piece in the plan, granting him a front-row seat to Sirius' revenge. Just... me. Me. Me. Me. Let it be me. Look at me—watch me! But then reality finally dawned.

Sirius wasn't looking at him at all. He couldn't. There wasn't the space for him. Sirius was lost in his own memories—busy with a never-ending merry-go-round of his own. He had no time to think of Remus, or anyone else for that matter. In Sirius' mind it was the exact same. Me. Me. Me. Please, let it be me.

And really... who could hardly blame him for that?

* * *

"Sirius, I still don't understand what I'm supposed to say to him!"

"Anything! Tell him you want violin lessons."

Remus gaped at him; "Violin lessons? Are you insane?!"

"You could always challenge him to a duel instead."

"Could you try not being an utter dickhead for two seconds?!"

"Just say you wanna talk," James supplied, looking quite giddy—a far cry from how nervous he'd been after they'd hauled themselves out of bed early to set everything up. James had always been an early-bird, but between football and pranking, he looked about ready to pass out on his feet most days.

"And then what?" Remus demanded. "Shall I suggest knitting to pass the time?"

"If you really want," Sirius shrugged. "But c'mon, Moons, you're smart—get creative with him. Just make sure he's on target before the first bell goes. And don't worry, we'll give ya a little whistle right before so you have time to get out of the way."